This Thing We're Doing
by sammyiammy
Summary: Daphne Greengrass is the last person from whom Seamus expected help fighting against the Carrows. But there she is, pretty and Pureblood and entirely too concerned with staying on the whole world's good side.
1. Chapter 1

In their seven years at Hogwarts, Daphne Greengrass had spoken to Seamus Finnigan exactly twice.

Their first exchange was in fourth year, when she informed him that the fumes from his remedial hair-raising potion had evaporated both his eyebrows and the tiny patch of blonde hairs along his jaw he'd been calling a beard. She suggested he visit the Hospital Wing; he complied, too upset by the loss of his facial hair to care that he'd just listened to the girl who was well on her way to becoming the town bicycle of the dungeons. On his way out, he thought he heard her whisper to Pansy Parkinson, "He doesn't look half-bad like that." He later found out that she was talking about Theodore Nott and his new haircut, but that didn't stop him from bragging to Parvati and Lavender that a Slytherin girl fancied him. They were annoyed with him for four whole days after.

The second was just the year before, when he was raging about how Cormac McLaggen had a spot on the Quidditch team and he didn't. "People only put up with him because they think he's, like, 'totally the fittest bloke in the air,'" he'd nearly shouted at Dean. Daphne, on her own in the same corridor, turned round, looked at him with flawless eyebrows raised, and said, "Yes." She disappeared back into the rush of passing students before he'd had time to fully process her acknowledgement. By the time he did, Dean was already off on a tangent about his relationship with Ginny.

They weren't exactly ideal conversational partners, the Daphne Greengrass and him: he was a halfblood, a Gryffindor, a member of Dumbledore's Army, and she was pureblood, Slytherin, and well under the Carrows' thumbs. He was, at best, an average student; she was in enough NEWT-level courses to pass for a Ravenclaw (although the jury was out on how well she was doing in said courses). His mam had struggled to keep them afloat after his dad left; she had two parents with gold enough to fill a small sea. He was interesting and personable and funny, and, as far as he could tell, she was nothing but a stupendously pretty face. They had less in common than a leprechaun and a pygmy puff. And yet, for reasons far beyond anything his imagination could dream up, she had just pulled him into a side corridor. Her hand was still in his, neat nails pressed against his rough palm.

He let go.

Quickly.

She seemed to understand. Her newly freed hand went to her mouth, thumb resting on her lips, as if to hide any movement from the sea of students changing classes just beyond the corridor's mouth. Without thinking, he echoed the gesture, cupping his hand along his jaw. Her eyes (green, he noticed, just like her name) flicked towards the movement but returned just as swiftly to his own. Voice low enough that he had to strain to hear it, she said, "The Carrows know it was you."

A lump rose in his throat, but he swallowed it back down without much difficulty. They'd obviously told her to try and make him nervous, get a confession out, but there was no way it would work. One, they hadn't once yet correctly guessed the minds behind all of the graffiti and classroom disruptions, and it was unlikely they'd started catching on now. Two, Daphne Greengrass was quite possibly the least threatening person at Hogwarts. "Know what was me, exactly?"

"The bathroom."

The lump returned with a vengeance. The accusation was far more accurate than he'd expected. "Oh." Her lips pursed at his answer. The pucker was just barely visible behind her tightened fingers, but it imbued him with confidence. Maybe his nonchalance act was working and her scowl was one of doubt. "I have no idea what you're talking about."

She said nothing, just stared at him, a thin line forming between her eyebrows. He returned the look, leaning against the brick wall behind him in an attempt to appear relaxed. The movement brought their lower bodies considerably closer together. Anyone looking would be a bit perplexed about why he was getting cosy with a Slytherin, but Seamus doubted anyone cared what was happening in a corridor whose prize feature was a statue of Alberich of Nibelungen.

Finally, after many a sigh and suppressed noise of dismay, she said, "The pigs. They know you put the pigs in the dungeon lavatory. If they can get you to confess to it, Snape's given them permission to do whatever they want with you. I don't know who told them it was you, but..."

It was his turn to stiffen up. "But what? You wanted to rub it in my face anyway, just because you could? Wanted to beat Parkinson to it so I know that you're a big bad Slytherin, too, not just her and Head Boy Zabini's little lapdog? Job well done, then. You've succeeded"

"Look," her breathing sped up, shallowed. Knuckles turning white and cheeks red, she said, "I just wanted to tell you, and now I have." She looked over her shoulder at the quickly thinning crowd, readjusted her bag. In what almost passed for a normal, snooty tone, she finished, "Wait a minute so we don't walk into Muggle Studies together, okay?"

He blinked hard. Civility, as condescending as it had been, wasn't exactly what he'd expected. "Okay."

By the time he thought to lower his hand from his cheek, she was gone.

…

"Seamus." A small hand struck his left shoulder blade. "You have to get up. Seamus, _get up._"

Without much knowing why, Seamus rose to his feet. Lavender kicked his calf, urging him to stand in front of his desk as protocol required. The she-Carrow stared with her little piggy eyes; she obviously expected something from him. Slowly, it dawned on him that she'd asked a question. No idea what, but she definitely had. He cleared his throat to buy a second or two of thought. "Muggles are classified as Beasts because they're… erm. Because they…" Lavender gave a little cough that sounded an awful lot like 'laws'. "They aren't smart enough to understand the laws of a civilised magical society."

"Correct," said the she-Carrow. Her approval was no surprise; he'd recited her lesson almost verbatim. "Now, what other sorts of animals join them in their classification?"

"All sorts."

A few laughs rippled through the room, but were quickly stifled. The she-Carrow looked displeased. "As I've said before, Mr. Finnigan, every dumb animal is considered a beast. A dragon, a mouse, a Kneazle, a _pig._" She paused, and his heart skipped a beat. "You know all about those, don't you, Mr. Finnigan?"

His heart sped up. Any other day, he would have made a big show about agreeing. Compare her and her brother to the pigs they were. Set her off. Speaking his mind was well worth a lashing or two. But Daphne's warning bubbled to the front of his mind and brought on a second thought. He opened his mouth to answer, but he never got the chance. Somewhere to his right, a female voice rang out, "Professor Carrow? I'm feeling a bit ill. Can Theo take me to the Hospital Wing?"

_Theo_ gave a muffled sigh. So subtly that it was almost unnoticeable, Daphne bumped her elbow against his. Another irritated noise later, he conceded, "She might be dying."

The she-Carrow plopped down onto her desk, coughed, all of her accusatory momentum lost. "Hurry up, then."

The bell rang only seconds later.

Seamus left almost as quickly as if he had Disapparated, passing just behind Daphne Greengrass, who was still in her seat, acting nothing like a girl who had, only moments ago, been on death's doorstep. He tried his best to pay her no mind.

* * *

><p><strong>JK Rowling owns absolutely everything, from characters to story. I... do not.<strong>

**Also, is this pairing even a thing? If not, it is now.  
><strong>


	2. Chapter 2

They didn't speak again for weeks.

He didn't speak _of _her for weeks, no matter how much he wanted to.

He did, however, think of her.

Quite a lot.

Enough that, some nights, it kept him from sleeping.

It wasn't the sort of thinking he usually did when it came to girls – he didn't stare at her in class, or smile when she passed in the corridor, or tell a rather unenthusiastic Dean what he would do with her should they end up locked in a broom closet (although that had more to do with a worrying lack of Dean than it did with Daphne Greengrass's inherent lack of appeal). The thoughts were more insidious than that. Every time she spoke up in class – especially in Muggle Studies and Dark Arts – his brain went whirring on, trying to work out the chain of events leading up to their date in the corridor

(Who found the ruined lavatory?

How did they react?

How long before the Carrows found out?

Just who was it that told them?

Who did they send to look it over, to make sure the news wasn't just a ruse to get under their skin?

How had they cleaned it all up before breakfast rolled around?

Who told them it had been him that'd gotten all the mud and paint and live fecking animals into the dungeon without attracting attention to himself?)

all of which he could work out without much of a struggle. A couple of fourth year Slytherins had been sneaking around after dark when they thought they caught sight of a prefect and tried to hide in the loo, only to find themselves face-to-face with a dirty, smelly, very annoyed pair of barnyard pigs – one male, one female. The two girls' screaming alerted the prefect (_Head Boy, _rather), who promptly alerted the Carrows to the disturbance. Head Boy Zabini then retrieved Daphne Greengrass from her dormitory and sent her into the lavatory to confirm the girls' rather hysterical story. She and the other Slytherin seventh years were tasked with cleaning up the mess. It wasn't anything out of the ordinary, as far as receptions of the DA's pranks went – not even the bit where Zabini chose someone other than Parkinson to help out. Head Girl though she may have been, she'd gone a bit mental since Malfoy disappeared from school.

The only part of the whole ordeal that surprised him was just who'd told the Carrows of his involvement: the same little Hufflepuff who'd stood guard while Seamus transported the pigs. After a few days of investigating, Neville found out that the kid had a sister in the Ministry who'd just recently gotten engaged to a suspected Muggleborn. Without a single question as to how or why Seamus had found out about the compromising of the operation, Neville let the poor thing know that he wasn't to be involved with Dumbledore's Army any longer. Seamus did his best not to think that, without the help of Daphne Greengrass, there was a very real possibility that the kid could have gotten more than a few someones tortured all the way to the brink of insanity or, even worse, death.

That left one question that, try as he might, he could never answer: _What possessed her to tell me?_ The only reason he hadn't unintentionally corroborated the kid's story and gotten himself into deeper trouble than he was already was was the kindness of the heart of someone who not only had nothing to gain, but almost everything to lose. So why, then, did she decide to pull him aside? He hadn't the slightest, so he just kept thinking. And thinking, and thinking, and thinking, and worrying, and obsessing, and staring at the ceiling for hours before his racing mind let him fall asleep.

When he finally brought himself to face her, in the library just after last period on an otherwise unremarkable Thursday, she was considerably less than transparent. It didn't help that HB Zabini was there, too. The split second Seamus so much as began to think about making eye contact, Zabini drawled, "Can I help you?"

"I, ehm." His eyes flickered from Zabini to the bookshelf above his head. Returning a stare was considerably harder when the other party had eyes so black they looked like burnt out embers. "I have a question for Daphne Greengrass about Divination."

Daphne squinted at him. "I don't take Divination."

"I know." With very little control over what he was saying, he rambled, "But Professor Trelawney had us conjure up a name out of a hat for a blind palm reading – like shooting in the dark, y'know? – and I got yours. I tried to trade Fay Dunbar since she got Michael Corner and I've actually spoken to him before in my life," a shadow flashed across her eyes, "but she said no. Trelawney, that is, not Fay. She said she doesn't really like you, actually. Search me why. Ehm. I don't – anyway. I would really appreciate if you could help me out, because I've got an E in there and I'm not givin' it up without a fight. So, ehm, that's all."

Zabini answered for her. "Magic word?"

For a long, incredibly hot moment, Seamus couldn't come up with a reply that wouldn't completely wipe out all his efforts previous. Finally, he managed, "Please, Daphne Greengrass, give me a hand."

"Yeah. Okay." Before the words had crossed her lips, Zabini let out a loud rush of air. He sounded like an angry, baritone tea kettle. Daphne made a face not unlike that of a rebellious teenager being scolded by her overbearing mother, but it didn't do any good. His heavily muscled arm stayed firmly around her shoulders. Without missing a beat, she placed her palm flat against his upper thigh, pushed herself up, and lifted out of his hold. The efficiency of the whole movement suggested she'd done it more than a few times. He remained where he was, making no attempt to pull her back down, but levelled Seamus with a deadpan stare. Seamus did his best to ignore him, instead turning about and walk into the stacks. Judging by the soft sound of footsteps, Daphne wasn't far behind.

When they'd reached a row well out of HB Zabini's earshot and with no Madam Pince to be found, Daphne stopped and tapped Seamus on the shoulder. "Palm reading?"

He didn't anticipate that she'd look so irritated. Before he could even finish turning around, she whispered, "What's wrong with you?"

"I wanted to know why you told me, ehm. What you did."

He may not have had sense enough to lower his voice, but he was quite happy that he managed to avoid bringing up the pig thing. She wasn't nearly as pleased. In fact, her eyebrows were beginning to furrow again. "What are you talking about?"

"The," he took a deep breath and dropped his voice, leaned in so only she could hear him, "the Carrows, and the kid, and the pigs."

Nothing changed in her countenance. Her arms stayed crossed. Her eyes stayed hard. Her mouth stayed shut. If anything, the line between her eyebrows deepened. She looked like a statue of Branwen on a bad day. Then, all in a rush, she said, "It wasn't fair!"

Seamus was taken aback. He shifted his weight from one hip to another as if to rearrange the contents of his brain through movement, but it didn't work. He drew a blank. Daphne Greengrass may have been pretty, but that wasn't nearly enough to make up for her tendency to say things that made absolutely no sense. He decided to let her elaborate.

Elaborate she did. Very quickly. "If Blaise had seen you with the pigs, or if those two girls had caught you in the act, or if your plan had gone wrong somehow, or if I had reported you on the grounds that you spelled 'fascist' wrong and I know for a fact that McGonagall always took points for your essays' mechanics, it would have been fair, but none of that happened. You just picked the wrong kid to put your trust in. I couldn't let you walk into that trap. It wouldn't have been fair."

She stared at him with wide eyes, waiting for a response. If he was being honest, he would say that he was a bit taken aback. The rant marked the first time he'd heard more than a sentence or two out of her, including when she was talking to someone else entirely. Also, the fact that she was interested enough in him to look at his essays when she was passing them back left him feeling quite important, but he did his best to suppress that. She looked like she wanted an answer, and she was going to get one.

He took a sharp breath through his nose, then said, "Right." After a moment of thought, he added, "Thanks."

She squinted at him, the same way she had when he addressed her by her full name while speaking through HB Zabini. "You're welcome."

"Right."

"Right."

She set off back to the corner of the library from whence she'd come, but before she reached the end of the aisle, she turned, grabbed a shelf to keep her balance, and said softly, "We're done now, okay?"

For some reason he couldn't quite catch hold of, his breath caught in his throat when he answered, "Okay."

* * *

><p><strong>A disclaimer: I am not a writing monster. These first two chapters were already done. Except the following to come at a more reasonable pace.<br>**


	3. Chapter 3

Being done was difficult.

It wasn't that he was particularly interested in her – the opposite, actually. He _wanted_ to go back to the days when he only thought of her as that mot that would be good-looking if she wasn't so far up Pansy Parkinson's arse. He would have _loved _ to forget the exact fecking color her eyes had looked when she was whispering to him about things that, by all accounts, she really shouldn't have. But he just couldn't do it, and it sure as shite wasn't his fault.

For one thing, she was in just about all of his classes, save Divination and Care of Magical Creatures. He never intentionally looked at her, but she was a bit hard to ignore when she was always with either the loudest girl in all of Hogwarts or the snootiest arsehole ever given the Head Boy badge. Every time he glanced over in disgust, she was there, looking all put-upon surrounded by the terrible people that kept her as a friend.

It also didn't do any good that whenever he did anything with the Dumbledore's Army, be it a holding hushed conversation in the corridor or a full-on meeting or going out for a late-night graffiti, he couldn't help but think that, had she not warned him, he might have waltzed his way right into a good old torturing, and the Hufflepuff kid would've kept on selling them out to the Carrows.

That whole forced gratitude thing wasn't made any easier when that same kid came over at breakfast one morning and tried to apologise his way back into their good graces. Neville, as simply as before but quite a bit more forcefully, told him that he wasn't to have anything to do with them. Just as before, he didn't ask why such a nice kid had to be let go as a lookout. For a while, anyway.

Perfectly-buttered toast held just by his mouth, he turned his head and said quietly, "How did you find out about him?"

Seamus chewed his eggs as slowly as he could without making himself sick. "It was just a guess, y'know? Only you and me and him and me cousin Fergus knew about the pigs, so I figured it must have been him that told. When I turned out to be right..." He swallowed, the eggs going down in a hard lump. "Lucky guess, right?"

Neville nodded and returned to his meager breakfast. He was easy, Neville. As much as Seamus hated lying to him (and secretly suspected that he could always tell the truths from the slight over-exaggerations and was just too polite to say so), Neville never called him out on it, or demanded further explanation. He just accepted what Seamus had to say. It was nice. It wasn't great for his own well-being when he really should have had some doubts about the organisation and reliability of the newly-reformed Inquisitorial Squad, but, still, a man always needed someone around to just take in what he had to say, and, in the absence of Dean, Neville was just that.

Ginny, on the other hand, didn't put as much stock in Seamus's word. That same afternoon during his free period they were together in the courtyard when, completely out of the blue, she said, "Was that the truth, what you told Neville?"

Considering they'd just been speaking about how the leaves were almost finished falling, it took Seamus a moment to switch gears. "What?"

"About guessing that that kid had a mouth on him."

"Yeah," he answered, nodding a bit too enthusiastically. "Course it was."

She narrowed her eyes at him. He hated it when she did that. Back when she was dating Dean, she did it all the time – especially when he made mention of the couple of good sound-blocking charms he knew would work on a four-poster, a reaction that he didn't understand at all. He was just being helpful. Now that they were partners in rebellion, though, the eyes were a more serious thing.

"Why are you looking at me like that?"

Her expression didn't move an inch. "Like what?"

Seamus shifted on the stone bench on which they were sitting. It was entirely too cold and uncomfortable for such a discussion, he decided. Not that he was going to complain. "Like I've done something wrong."

"No reason." She flipped her hair, breaking eye contact between them, and time began to move again. "You were just acting a bit weird about it."

"Oh. Wasn't quite awake, I guess."

The wind rustled over the leave-strewn ground. She shrugged. "Right."

He didn't say another word for hours, just nodded and made noises of acknowledgement while other people talked. There was too big a chance he'd accidentally bring the kid up again; he was such a large presence on his mind. Him and stupid Daphne Greengrass, who was sitting with Michael Corner in Transfiguration and flirting up a storm. They were actually holding hands for a while. The touch sent Seamus's mind spinning, thinking that maybe she was trying to get in with all of the former male members of Dumbledore's Army in hopes of getting some information out of them. He made a mental note to tell Neville not to fall for the eyelash-batting.

"Master Finnigan!"

His head jerked to the front of the room; his hands scrambled to grab a quill and fake taking notes, but it was too late. McGonagall had him in her sights.

"Is Conjuration not interesting enough for you, Master Finnigan?" She began to tap the tip of her wand against her thigh, never a good sign. "One would think you would like the idea of creating something from nothing, when your very obviously unresearched essays are taken into consideration."

"Yes, ma'am," he answered automatically. Upon realising what he'd just implied about her teaching, he nearly shouted, "No!" Then, at a normal volume and with quite a bit more care, he corrected, "No, ma'am. It's very interesting. I've just been looking around, trying to figure out what in here could be untransfigured."

It was a vocabulary word from homework previous, but it appeared that he hadn't used it correctly, seeing as McGonagall's fingers went to her temples. "What am I ever going to do with you?"

Seamus crossed and uncrossed his arms, unsure of what to do with himself. "No idea, ma'am."

"That was a rhetorical question, Master Finnigan." On the opposite side of the room, Michael Corner was looking awfully amused. Seamus would have to remember to make Ginny give him something unpleasant to do later. It wouldn't take much convincing; she was still annoyed with him from when they broke up in her fourth year. "Please, return to staring off into the distance and allow me to teach without giving myself a headache."

"Yes, ma'am."

As directed, Seamus spent the rest of the period glaring at the far wall and doing his very best not to think about anything, least of all the blonde hanging on the smarmy gob in the corner. It wasn't until Lavender tapped him on the shoulder that he even noticed the last bell had rung.

She looked down at him like he'd gone off his head. He had never been one to stay in class longer than he had to. "Are you planning on going to dinner, or would you rather stay here looking for transfigured objects all night?"

Seamus blinked. Most everyone else had already left. Parvati hovered behind Lavender, looking like she was just about ready to leave him in the name of stew that hadn't yet cooled off. She cleared her throat and made a very sharp gesture towards the door. Lavender must not have seen it, because she stayed put. "Seamus? Are you all right? This is the longest you've ever not spoken."

"Oh, I'm fine," said Seamus brightly. He stood up and grabbed his bag in a jerk, then set off for the door. Michael Corner and Co. were nowhere to be found, and judging by their respective romantic pasts, they wouldn't show back up until at least half seven. He would finally be able to face towards the far wall at dinner without losing focus. "Right as rain."

Parvati and Lavender followed him out like ducklings whose mother had just started oinking.


	4. Chapter 4

It was the dead of night the next time Seamus paid Daphne Greengrass any mind. The business with Michael Corner had broken his feverish obsession and left him free to focus on other things. Revolution and rebellion, for example. Ginny and Neville finally accepted that he was a very good judge of character when it came to fourth-year Hufflepuffs and hadn't questioned his discovery in near two weeks, leaving him free to find new talent for the DA. Parvati was far less irritated with his heel-dragging, mostly because he hadn't been doing any. She- and he-Carrow with their short attention spans seemed to have forgotten all about the pigs, and Seamus didn't see enough of Snape to know if he had any suspicions, so he felt it was safe to assume he didn't.

Dumbledore's Army was stronger than ever. Even Neville had to admit that they were, if not in the clear, at least in the eye of the storm. So, they met not in hushed tones over textbooks under Madam Pince's watchful eye, but in an open corridor after hours, wands lit up like industrial-strength torches. In retrospect, it was an incredibly stupid assembly, but they were too drunk off their own success to realise that before it was too late.

Ginny sat with her back against a stone wall to protect herself from the draft whipping through the corridor. Her skirt was hiked up to her hips, but the shorts she wore beneath it kept anything from showing. "Did you hear Fred on the broadcast today? I nearly died when he first came on."

"No," answered Hannah Abbott simply. She'd spent most of the afternoon in the he-Carrow's office. Although Seamus wasn't sure just what he had done, her black eye and split lip were clear to see in the dark hallway. The injuries were so common that they hardly made an effect on the rest of the group. Still, Neville moved slightly closer to her, their arms just touching.

"Oh," answered Ginny, some of the wind gone from her sails. She pressed on regardless. "Anyway, after he tried to change his codename again, he said that some of the janitorial staff's been putting a hold on the Registration Committee trials by charming all of the high-rank offices' windows to rain until they flood."

A huge smile lit up Seamus's face. "That's fecking brilliant."

"Quite," Ernie Macmillan agreed. The corners of his mouth were turned up in what could easily be considered an expression of amusement.

"Until they get caught," said Michael Corner, who was also looking rather bruised. He seemed to be taking it considerably less well than Hannah. "And put on trial themselves."

"Thank you, Puddleglum," said Ginny. Almost twenty minutes had passed since they'd all showed up, but she still wasn't happy that he'd been invited. Neither was Seamus, to be honest, but he let her do the complaining.

Michael slunk back into a shadow.

For a long moment, they were silent. It wasn't uncommon for them stay that way for long stretches – when they were all thinking the same thing, what was the point of saying it? This time, though, a loud bang from what sounded like less than fifty meters away shocked them out of their meditation.

"Really?" followed a female voice. "Was that necessary?"

Hysteria broke out among the DA members. Those with wands in hand extinguished them; those without rifled through pockets and socks and waistbands until they had hold of something that could put up a fight. Ginny jumped up from the ground, nearly smacking her head against the wall in her haste. Hannah took off running, Ernie not far behind her – both were Prefects, and Hannah had already gotten into enough trouble that day. When Seamus turned to make sure he hadn't done something stupid like forgotten his wand in his dorm, Michael was gone, too. Irrationally, he began to swear. Quite loudly.

"Do you hear something?" asked another, deeper, slower voice. They were getting closer.

"Shut up," Ginny hissed in Seamus's ear. Every muscle in her body was tensed, like a cat about to pounce. He was similarly braced, although he doubted he looked nearly as graceful.

The female voice was quite decisive in its answer. "No."

"I could've sworn..."

Neville began to brush past Seamus, but stopped at the wild look on his face.

"You're hearing things, Vincent," said the female voice. It sounded like its owner was just around the corner. Very quickly, like something terrible was about to happen, it went on, "Look, if you want, I'll keep going on the round. You look in there. I know they've met in these classrooms before."

The 'they' she was referring to must have been the DA, because Crabbe answered, "Right you are. Not too bright, that Longbottom, is he?"

The girl gave a tight little cough of a laugh. Neville remained unmoved.

"Well, aye," Crabbe continued, "You go, and if Amy wants us for splitting up, it's on you."

"Fine."

"Go on, then."

Seamus could almost feel Ginny's fingers tighten around her wand as the footsteps split up, one presumably going back to a row of unused classrooms and the other coming straight towards them. It was all he could do not to send a curse at the noise.

After a few seconds that felt more like excruciatingly long hours, the source of the female voice came around the corner. It was Daphne.

In an aggressively exasperated tone very unlike the one generally used in the face of three armed vigilantes, she whispered, "What is wrong with you?"

That was enough to confuse Ginny into lowering her wand a fraction of a centimeter. "Excuse me?" she whispered back.

Undeterred, Daphne continued towards them. "Don't just stand there. Go! He's not dumb enough to search through empty classrooms forever."

Ginny's mouth was open, but nothing came out. Neville answered for her. "Are you mental?"

As though she was speaking to a very small child, Daphne asked, "Do you _want_ to get caught?"

"No," said Seamus, quite a lot more loudly than he'd meant to. Hopefully, Crabbe was far enough away that he hadn't heard. He turned on his heel and gestured for Ginny and Neville to go. After a moment more of sheer bemusement, go they went. Quickly. He followed, trying his hardest to look where he was going, but he couldn't help but take once glance back before turning into the next corridor.

Daphne looked far more anxious than she had when she was urging them on. Although the moonlight just barely cut through the blackness bathing the corridor, it was enough for him to see her face, impossibly pretty and far more worried than he'd ever imagined it could be. The furrow between her eyebrows had returned with a vengeance, and it occurred to him that she must have been doing an awful lot of frowning lately for it to get that deep. That had even more effect on him than the risk of punishment did. He wanted so badly to turn around that he came to a dead stop inches away from freedom. It was only Ginny's vise of a grip on his arm that kept him from going back.

They were running for near four solid minutes. Not until the Fat Lady was in plain sight did they slow down. As they waited for her to wake up, Ginny repeated what Daphne had said upon first seeing them: "What's wrong with you?"

"Nothing," he answered automatically. She glared at him, clearly expecting him to apologise for stopping or something of the sort. He did not. "Nothing! I could ask you the same thing, though, couldn't I, leading us into a fix like that?"

"Oh, it's my fault now?" The Fat Lady was fully awake, but Ginny was too worked up to give the password. "It's my fault that you can't keep your mouth shut and you have some kind of weird hard-on for Daphne Greengrass?"

"I can't keep my mouth shut?"

"Applause," said Neville. The portrait hole swung open.

Ginny was practically shouting now. "I think you may be missing the point there!"

"You should probably be quiet," suggested Neville softly. He placed a hand behind each of their backs and pushed them forward into the common room. They were both angry enough that they didn't mind. "So all that running away isn't put to waste."

Seamus complied, but there was enough harshness in his voice that it more than made up for what he'd lost in volume. "You seem to be mistaking me with your ex-boyfriend, who's been fucking her in his spare time for the past two weeks. Golly gee, I wonder how they found out where we were."

"What are you trying to say?" She looked like she was one wrong word away from hitting him.

Seamus opened his mouth to answer, but nothing came out. Ginny seemed to be suffering from a similar affliction. It took him a few seconds to figure out what was going on: Neville had jinxed them. In the now unbroken silence of the empty common room, he slipped his wand back into the pocket of his corduroys and lifted a hand in the direction of the stairs. Like two naughty children, Ginny and Seamus walked to their dormitories with heads down. Not even when the jinx lifted did they start back up arguing.

Seeing as it was just the two of them in their room, Neville was able to use his normal speaking voice once he and Seamus were inside. Hand firmly around the handle of his wand, he said, "So that's how you found out about Philip."

"Who?"

"The Hufflepuff lookout. The one from the bathroom. The one that you just happened to have guessed was a problem."

Very gingerly, Seamus sat down on his bed. "I've no idea what you're on about, mate."

Neville stared at him, waiting for a real answer. His hand was still on his wand.

"Yeah," Seamus said finally. He collapsed backwards onto his unmade bedclothes and spoke to the ceiling. "Yeah, it was her. I didn't ask her to tell me, you have to believe me – I'd only spoken to her twice in my life before then. She just came up to me... I dunno. I've no clue what she was doing, telling me. No clue why she didn't turn us in, either. Honestly, mate. I've got nothing to do with it." When Neville didn't answer, he repeated hoarsely, "Honestly."

"Okay," said Neville. He sounded more resigned than angry. "I believe you."

Seamus let out a sigh of relief.

"Just– please." It sounded as though he was lying down now, too. "Please don't talk to her about anything else. I'll tell Michael the same thing. We can't– you can't do things like that. You can't trust them. Any of them."

"Don't worry," said Seamus. He kneaded his hands into his eyes, incredibly tired now that he was safe in his own bed. "I won't."

They didn't speak again after that, but Seamus still hadn't fallen asleep by the time morning light began to fill the dormitory.


	5. Chapter 5

"We need to talk."

It was the next morning, halfway through Divination. One second, Seamus was half-asleep in his tea, trying to distinguish between the hazy, tea-leaf outlines of a cat and a Kneazle; the next, he was violently awake, Daphne Greengrass kneeling beside his spindly little table. He wasn't sure how or when she'd gotten there without his noticing, but there was one thing he knew without question: she had no business in first period Divination. Or any Divination, really. Or, as much as he normally liked girls in her position, on her knees in front of him. With as much conviction as he could muster up, he replied, "I don't think so."

"I'm sorry, I don't remember asking your permission," she snapped. Two tables and several poufs over, Lavender and Parvati stared with wide eyes. Daphne must have seen them looking, because she lowered her voice and amended, "I know, that was mean, and this probably isn't a very good time for you, but it's sort of pressing."

Seamus considered his answer very carefully. On one hand, he'd promised Neville not eight hours before that he wouldn't so much as glance her way. On the other, Neville wasn't there. Also, the Inquisitorial Squad badge she was wearing meant she could – theoretically – force him to go with her. Not that she ever would.

Probably.

Before he got a chance to verbalise any of the thoughts barrelling through his head, Professor Trelawney called from the front of the room, "Can I help you, dear?"

Daphne stood very quickly, straightening her skirt on the way up. "The Professors Carrow would like to see Seamus."

"Ah," said Trelawney. Her voice was considerably less vague than usual. "You should be off, then. No good will come from making those in charge wait for what they want."

"Right then." Although he didn't really have all that many non-punishable options for what to do, Seamus liked to think that he _chose_ to stand and follow her across the room, then down the ladder and out of the classroom. She didn't speak again until they were halfway down the seventh floor stairwell, at which point she offered the entirely unexpected, "The third day of that class, she told me there was a 'metaphorical brick wall' between the future and I. It's the only thing I've ever dropped. She's hated me since."

The anecdote took him a moment to process. "I've always been fairly good at the whole looking towards the future shite, come to think of it. Much better than Potions or the like, as you've always like to point out."

She looked over her shoulder at him, quite bemused. "As I've always liked to point out?"

"That one time in fourth year, when I was brewing a hair-raising potion and it burned me eyebrows and beard off?" A tiny smile, visible only faintly in her profile, came to her face at the word 'beard'. It may have been a slight exaggeration, but the smirk was a good sign that she remembered what he was talking about. "You told me about it, even though Park– _Pansy_ was right there, and she's always hated me." He wasn't sure exactly why he'd called Parkinson by her first name. Maybe it was because Daphne never used anything _but _first names, his included. It was a strange habit, to say the least. Not bad, necessarily, but strange.

They were already on the third floor. Daphne was moving much more quickly than he thought her capable. The brief smile was gone. "I don't remember that at all."

"No, it happened," he insisted, feeling more foolish every second. "I remember because it was back when Lavender and I were a thing. When I thought you said that I was good-looking – found out later that you were talking about Nott's," he couldn't bring himself to say _Theodore,_ "haircut – I got so big on meself that I told just about everyone I came across that you fancied me, and Lavender didn't speak to me for days after. I'm pretty sure that that's why she doesn't like you, actually. Sorry, I s'pose."

The ground floor passed by in a blur, and they made their way onto the lawn. Without looking back, she said, "I wasn't."

Seamus moved to walk beside her. She was going so fast that he nearly had to run to catch up. "You weren't what?"

She tucked a few strands of long, blonde hair behind her ear. "I wasn't talking about Theo. I genuinely thought that you were good-looking, even without eyebrows. Pansy's just always liked to pretend that Theo and I are going to get together some day, which, if I'm being honest, is extremely unlikely, considering that I'm fairly certain he's not interested in women, me least of all."

"Ah." There were no words that could adequately express what was going on in his brain, so he chose to change the topic while he was still capable of speech. "So, why did you need to talk to me?"

They came to a halt. The castle was far enough away that no one would be able to see them behind the big oak tree on the shore of the lake. It struck him again how quickly she'd been moving, like she couldn't get away from Hogwarts fast enough. At almost exactly the same moment, he noticed how cold it was. Neither of them were wearing robes, let alone cloaks, but both seemed determined not to make mention of their discomfort. For a second he considered putting his arm around her like he would with any of his female friends, but remembered immediately that she wasn't anything approaching friendly.

With the same exasperation she'd had the night before, she answered, "They know it was you in the corridor."

"Me?"

"Not you, specifically," she corrected him. "Dumbledore's Army. And since the three of you – Neville, Ginny, and you, that is – have become de facto leaders in the Golden Trio's absence, it followed that you'd be responsible for any disturbances in the dead of night."

"And Crabbe figured this out all on his own?"

"Don't be stupid," she said dismissively, then cringed at her own tone. "Blaise did after Crabbe and I reported back to him at the end of our rounds. Then he sent us to talk to the Carrows and Professor Snape, who, as always, agreed with everything he had to say."

Even with all of the other cloudy, mixed-up emotions that he was suddenly having to suppress, Seamus couldn't help but feel intense suspicion. Mention of the Carrows did that to him. "So what did you tell them?"

"I told them that yes, I saw the three of you, but that I was afraid of what you'd do if I tried to stop you, so I let you get away."

"And they're taking that lying down?" If anyone in their classes so much as sneezed at the wrong moment, the Carrows threw a fit. It was almost unthinkable that they'd let someone get away with neglecting an opportunity to turn in the heads of the ever-deepening thorn in their side that was the DA.

"Yes," she said, very matter-of-factly. "My cause was helped quite a lot by the fact that I'm an old-money Slytherin pureblood."

It was a good point. Daphne Greengrass was exactly the type of person that the Carrows would have had to brown-nose to get to where they were in life. It didn't make sense for them to jeopardise all they'd worked for just to punish the girl who hadn't _quite_ managed to apprehend Seamus Finnigan and Co. Still, though, they had to be doing something to make up for her failure, and it more than likely involved him. "So, why exactly are you telling me this, Miss Diplomatic Immunity?"

She was unamused by the nickname. "Because, Mr. Rabble Rouser, you're currently what I think you would refer to as 'up shit creek without a paddle.' I really am here to bring you to the Carrows."

"Oh."

"Exactly." She smiled a tight little smile. "But that's not even the best part."

Seamus was silent, waiting for the punchline. Judging by the furrow that was starting to form just between her eyebrows, it wasn't going to be a good one.

"Once we're there, I'm set to be doing the punishing."

* * *

><p><strong>Sorry for the delay; the Doc Manager was being difficult.<strong>


	6. Chapter 6

They were silent on the way to the he-Carrow's office. Every so often, Daphne glanced back over her shoulder as if to make sure he hadn't scarpered off. She moved considerably slower than she had on the way out of the castle. He didn't blame her for either – he felt like he was on his death march, and imagined she felt much the same. Or, rather, maybe she would, if she wasn't the executioner. He shook the thought out of his head. Feeling bad for the girl who'd gotten him into this whole mess would do far more harm than good.

Classes were changing when they got inside; people swarmed around all them, offering a perfect opportunity for escape. He knew, though, that running away would only make his case worse, so he stuck close behind her as she made her way through the halls. The crowd split before her like a school of fish threatened with a shark. For a short while he thought that everyone was staring at him, that they knew just what the Carrows had in store, but after passing a good part of the Ravenclaw Quidditch team he realised that all of the gawking bystanders were male, and every single one was ogling his escort. He seriously doubted that they'd even noticed he was there. He was suddenly, irrationally thankful that he would never be an incredibly attractive female faced with the lewd stares of a bunch of dumb muscle.

Seamus was on edge, not for any normal, healthy reason, but because he was worried that Neville would see him in the presence of Daphne Greengrass. He continued to bob behind her like he was on some kind of invisible tether, but every voice that sounded anywhere close to the same as his dormmate's left him cringing away from his guide. Luckily for his nerves, the rational part of his mind knew that both Neville and his right-hand man Ginny had classes in the upper reaches of the castle and took no time to assure him that he was, in that one, tiny aspect of his life, safe.

The corridors were almost empty by the time they reached their destination. Daphne stopped short at the door. No words passed through her lips, but they were trembling something fierce. Seamus pressed pass her, brushing his fingers against hers as he went. He wasn't sure why.

The moment the scuffed-up toe of his shoe passed through the threshold, he knew he'd made a grave mistake. Everyone who held the slightest bit of power in the Inquisitorial Squad was present in the cramped room. Croyle flanked the door; HB Zabini leaned against an empty bookshelf; Pansy, unpleasant smile firmly on her face, stood close beside him; Nott rested on the dirty windowsill; the Carrows sat heavy on the edge of the distressed desk; and Headmaster Snape himself occupied the wingback desk-chair.

The he-Carrow bared what was left of his teeth. "Welcome to my office, Paddy."

Automatically, Seamus answered, "Thanks." Looked like all of those etiquette lessons from his mam finally paid off.

Daphne pulled the door shut behind him.

"Do you know why you're here, Mister Finnigan?" asked Snape. He bit down on each of his words as if they had personally offended him. Seamus imagined that he had better things to do with his time than act as a hanging judge.

There was no point in lying; the only reason the room was full was that everyone already knew he was guilty. "I was out past curfew last night."

Crabbe guffawed. "No shite you were."

"Shut up, Vince," snapped HB Zabini. He turned his head ever so slightly so as to better stare deadpan into Seamus's eyes. "We know you were leading a meeting of Dumbledore's Army. This idiot saw you in the act."

"Actually," Snape corrected, "Only Miss Greengrass saw him. Mister Crabbe was searching through empty classrooms. Is that correct?"

"Yes," Daphne answered softly.

"Only because you told me to, you bint."

"_Quiet_." Snape levelled Crabbe with an icy glare. "If you speak out of turn again, I'll have no choice but to ask you to leave. Seeing as you are a prime witness in this case, that would make my job needlessly difficult. Do you understand?"

Crabbe gave a terse nod and pressed back into the wall.

Snape exhaled through his nose. "Now, where were we?"

"Little Miss Prissy Pants caught Finnigan with his pants down," the she-Carrow supplied eagerly.

Fingers steepled before him, Snape refocused to just behind where Seamus was shaking in his proverbial boots. "Ah. Miss Greengrass, could you please detail for us exactly what you saw Mister Finnigan doing?"

Seamus didn't turn to look at Daphne for fear of feeling even worse for his hangman, but he couldn't mistake the trepidation in her voice. "Around one, Seamus, Neville Longbottom, and Ginny Weasley were standing in the middle of a dark corridor on the third floor with wands in hand. No one else was with them."

"Doesn't matter," said the she-Carrow. "The little prick could have been all by himself, he'd still get punished the same. Speaking of."

The he-Carrow finished her thought. "Go to it."

Every set of eyes in the room but Seamus's turned to Daphne. She swallowed audibly. "What am I supposed to be going to, again?"

"Whatever your pretty little heart desires." The he-Carrow slid forward in anticipation. "If I was you, I'd go for the face."

Quietly enough that Seamus could hardly tell what was happening, Daphne stepped out from behind him and drew her wand from the band of her stockings. With more force than she'd exhibited since the two of them were alone, she said, "Face me."

Irrationally, the only thing Seamus could focus on once he turned was the line between her eyebrows. Not four feet behind her, Goyle had his own wand out and ready to go should Daphne fail in some capacity, but Seamus barely registered his presence. Despite all of the effort she was putting into appearing menacing, Daphne looked an absolute wreck. He wasn't the only one who noticed.

In the far corner of his field of vision, Parkinson took a step towards them. "What's wrong, Daphne? Forgotten how to use your wand?"

Daphne opened her mouth, but no sound came out.

"Daphne?" Another step towards them. "What are you waiting for? It's Seamus Finnigan. You've Crucio'd first years tougher than him." Seamus wanted to feel some semblance of outrage at her comment, but he couldn't bring himself to get angry at Daphne. Every single student enrolled in the he-Carrow's Dark Arts class - himself included - had done just as much wrong as she had. Daphne's eyes fluttered shut. "Have you lost it? Have you and he been shagging or something? I know your standards are low, but that's a bit much."

"Pansy." There was thinly-veiled anger in HB Zabini's voice. "Shut it."

The he-Carrow stood up and swatted at Zabini, making contact with his cheekbone. "No, you shut it. Crucio him, lovely. Now. Or I'll do it for you."

In a sudden explosion of noise and movement, Daphne burst into tears. Loud, painful-to-hear sobs ripped out of her, setting her whole body shaking. Her sudden breakdown silenced the room more effectively than any curse could have. No one knew quite what to do with themselves.

She was an ugly crier. No matter how often he'd born witness to his mam torn down by the harsh reality that her son was all the love she had left, Seamus had always harboured a fantasy that girls were delicate creatures whose beauty couldn't be tarnished by something so trivial as sadness. Daphne was doing her darndest to change his mind. Her eyes were puffy, her nose brilliantly red, her lips curled in as she tried to control her sobbing, and if she were wearing makeup, it would surely have long since ran down her face. A string of sounds fell from her mouth, but Seamus couldn't make out any coherent words but "I can't."

That was more than enough for Parkinson. "You can't? Why the hell not? Is he your newest charity project or something? Want to help out the needy, and if you get fucked on the way, all the better?" She took another few steps towards them, overtaking the Carrows. "Corner I could understand: he's handsome enough, even if he is just another part of the virus killing Hogwarts. But_ Seamus Finnigan_?" Daphne's crying was dying down, but that didn't stop Parkinson's tirade. "Let me set you straight on him, shall I? He's nothing but a filthy Mudblood who deserves everything that's com-"

"I'm not a Mudblood."

Seamus searched wide-eyed for whoever it was that had cut her off, but the shocked stares on all of the faces around him quickly clued him in to the truth that the argument came from him. He hadn't meant to say anything. The words just slipped out. And, now that they'd started, they wouldn't stop. "Me mam's a witch. That makes a _half-blood,_ not that that makes any difference to people like you." He squared his shoulders and looked directly into Parkinson's eyes. Her face was screwed up into little more than an ugly pucker. "If I was you, I'd stick to bullying your friends, since you've obviously got no fecking idea what you're talking about otherwise." He meant to stop there, but his mouth had other ideas. At top volume, voice full of disgust, it let loose with, "You stupid cunt."

He was unconscious before he hit the floor.

* * *

><p><strong>Oh, hey. Remember me? If you're still reading this, I can't thank you enough.<strong>


	7. Chapter 7

Seamus awoke to a soft voice and the touch of fingers laced through his. He couldn't make out words over the sound of his own throbbing pain, but the voice kept on, gentle and soothing and slow. It reminded him of getting sick as a gossoon, when his mam would sit with him for hours and cure all of his ills with just her presence. Even though Muggle remedies brought up painful memories of her one-time husband's family, she would hold a cool cloth to his forehead and spoon-feed him canned tomato soup (made with water, not milk) until he hated the taste so much he would rather starve than eat another mouthful. Then she would talk until the wee hours of the morning, talk about nothing and everything at the same time, weaving fairytales in with town gossip and lullabies with predictions on the weather. He would fall asleep in her arms and wake up feeling better than ever before.

When recognisable words began to swim their way through the cloud oppressing his senses, Seamus tried to open his eyes. They barely slit. His right eye was so obscured by eyelashes that it might as well have remained closed. But, even with a field of vision that was little more than one blurry crescent moon, he could make out blonde hair and the curves of a female face. The corners of his mouth curled up, sending a jolt of pain through his whole face. Before his lips could form the name that was on his mind, the voice cautioned, "It's Lavender, Shay."

It was obvious, now that he knew, who she was. The bits of her that he could make out all pointed to Lavender: long, wavy, dark blonde hair; pink cheeks; a frilly, dusk-coloured shirt. He wasn't sure why he'd thought otherwise. Never in a million years would _she_ make a bedside visit.

A bitter, metallic taste, somewhere between blood and pain potion, filled his mouth. He choked it down and rasped out, "Why won't my eyes open?"

"Goyle kicked you in the face." She gave his hand a soft squeeze. "After you... you know. Insulted Pansy."

"Oh."

She took a deep breath. "And then they hit your head against the doorframe when Professor Snape made them bring you up to the Hospital Wing."

He tried to force a smile, but it hurt too much. Aching from all of the effort he was putting into keeping them open, his eyes slid shut. "Can't blame them, can you? I would've done the same thing."

"You've been unconscious for twenty-seven hours, Seamus. Madam Pomfrey was worried you might not wake up!" Another deep breath and her voice returned to its earlier, more manageable volume. "No one was even allowed to visit you until this morning."

"So you've been here watching me sleep since then, have you?"

"That's not funny." Judging by her rise in pitch, it was a little funny. "Besides, I couldn't have if I wanted to. The Carrows told Madam Pomfrey not to let anyone stay for more than fifteen minutes at a time, _but_ so long as we - me and Parvati and Neville and Ginny, that is - switch off every once in a while she pretends not to notice we're even here."

For some reason, Seamus couldn't imagine Parvati voluntarily watching over him. She wasn't exactly what he would call maternal.

He must have slipped off for a while after that, because the next thing he heard was, "You're such an idiot."

"Nice to see you, too."

Ginny made a noise of great derision. "Shut up. You can't even open your eyes."

Seamus coughed. It was close enough to a laugh that he chose to count it as a victory over the burning in his throat. "And whose fault is that?"

"Yours." What he assumed was her knee nudged against his ribs. It hurt. A lot. Her voice was almost as pained. "At what point did calling Pansy Parkinson a cunt seem like a good idea?"

"Well." He coughed again. It sounded considerably less like a laugh this time. "I'll be honest with you; I don't remember a lot of what happened. But I think the turning point was when she said Corner was cuter than I'm. Couldn't take that lying down."

"I hate to be the one to tell you this, but if he wasn't then, he definitely is now." Her knee jabbed into his side again. "You look like a rotten plum."

"Thanks for that."

There was a loud scraping noise that sounded like a chair being moved. "They could have killed you."

"But they didn't."

"They're not going to let us both sit here," said Ginny. It took Seamus an embarrassingly long time to figure out that she wasn't talking to him.

"Who cares?"

A real smile cracked through the puffy mess of scabs that was his face. "Neville!"

By the sound of it, Neville wasn't nearly as excited to see Seamus as Seamus was to hear him. "I don't really want to talk to you right now."

"Neville..." Ginny was sounding pained again. She lowered her voice to where Seamus assumed she thought he couldn't hear. "Be nice to him. He can barely breathe on his own."

"No. I'm done being nice." Neville's voice got closer. "Why couldn't you just listen to me? I let the pig thing go. I didn't ask any questions about why Daphne Greengrass covered for us in the corridor. I trusted you. I trusted that you would make good decisions. I trusted that you wouldn't do anything stupid. And you... to put it bluntly: you did. How is the DA supposed to rally behind you if all you do is get yourself into trouble. You could have _died_, and all because you felt like mouthing off to Pansy Parkinson. I can't believe you."

For a long moment, Seamus was too overwhelmed to answer. Neville never got upset, least at all at him, and now there he was, disappointed with him for the second time in three days. That anger felt even worse than the cuts and bruises. "I'm sorry."

"Sorry's not enough."

A few loud footsteps and a slammed door later, Neville was gone.

A shadow fell over Seamus's eyes. This time when he tried to open them, his eyelids got far enough apart that he could make out Ginny's expression. It was an unusual one for her. Never once had she looked at him like she was looking at him then: like he was some kind of animal left to die on the street. The pity clear on her face set his head throbbing again.

"I've got to go eat," she said. It wasn't an excuse to leave. At the very beginning of the year, Heads of House had been tasked with making sure all students but those with extremely extenuating circumstances attended each and every meal. Exceptions were made - Slytherins could often slip through the cracks with little to no effort - but mere hours after a major punishment was no time to push their luck. "I'll try to talk to Neville."

Despite both Seamus's best efforts and the massive amounts of potion in him - he was fairly certain Madam Pomfrey had given him more when he drifted off on Lavender - he couldn't sleep. Not a wink. He wasn't sure how long he was lying there - although a convincing case could be made for twelve minutes and forty-eight - before another human being entered the room, but it felt like a thousand years. At the sound of an opening door, the same irrational hope that welled up when he caught sight of Lavender's hair overtook him, and he hated it. It drove him crazy. It made him want to cover his face with his pillow and hold it there. Unfortunately, he seriously doubted that he would be able to move his arms that far.

It turned out not to matter one way or the other. The voice that asked him if he was still awake belonged to a cross woman of indeterminate age. The difference between his expectations and reality was wide enough that he once again forced his eyes open.

As she went about changing his bandages and making clucking noises at the way his wounds were healing, Madam Pomfrey said curtly, "It would appear that while you were busy recovering from accidentally inflicted blunt trauma last night I was demoted to courier." She turned down his bedclothes and lifted the hem of his starchy, Hospital-wing standard shirt. He was well thankful he couldn't see past his chest. The way her mouth thinned couldn't indicate anything good. "I was given a message for you, you see." A stabbing pain shot across his torso as she applied a sickly green paste to his hip. "From a student who would rather not be named." She pressed a bandage over his still-stinging wound, replaced his shirt and the bedclothes, and smoothed down her apron. She marched to her office in silence. When she reached the entrance, she placed one hand on the doorframe, took a slow breath and finished, "It's 'I'm sorry.' Absolute rubbish, if you ask me."

With the help of frequent visits from an extraordinarily annoyed matron, Seamus did eventually fall asleep. However, in spite of her best efforts, the purple potion that she spooned into his mouth when his eyes started to droop did nothing to help soothe his subconscious. His night was filled with visions of a twisted, hellishly hot version of the he-Carrow's office. Even in his dreams, Daphne wasn't present.

* * *

><p><strong>I'm incredibly inconsistent.<strong>


	8. Chapter 8

Madam Pomfrey was nothing if not punctual. At precisely eight o'clock the next morning, she handed Seamus a clean set of robes and sent him out the door. His legs were barely strong enough to support his own weight, but Merlin be damned if he was going to let that stop him going to breakfast. It took more than a beating to keep Seamus Finnigan down. His face was swollen and his body bruised, but his jaw was set and his back was straight. Not even the stares and whispers of a group of Ravenclaw girls could distract him from reaching the Great Hall.

By the time he made it to the bottom of the Grand Staircase his momentum was as much a product of willpower as it was of fear that, were he to stop, he wouldn't be able to start again. His legs were getting awfully shaky, and the pounding in his head was returning with a vengeance. Had Padma Patil not caught hold of him, he might have collapsed in the middle of the Entrance Hall. After slipping her arm securely around his waist and pulling him upright, she explained, "You looked like you were about to get awfully friendly with the floor. And now you're looking at me like I've grown a second head." He attempted to wipe the stunned expression off of his face, but failed miserably. He couldn't even close his mouth. "Shall I let you go?"

"No!" It would appear that his vocal cords were back in full working order, because he had just shouted at a girl whose face was less than 20 centimeters from his own. A few people stared. He hastily lowered his voice and repeated, "No. Please don't."

"Yeah, all right." In no time at all, she led him to the Gryffindor table. He almost succeeded in pretending not to care if anyone was watching them go; he made eye contact with only one lone fourth year, and not for long. Seamus didn't blame him for looking away. Double black eyes and a split lip did have the potential to be alarming.

Unlike the cut in his lip, which caused no inconvenience past a bit of pain now and again, the black eyes had a further disadvantage: he didn't catch sight of his co-conspirators until it was too late to turn back. Not that Padma would have let him, anyway.

At least five places, some empty, some not, separated both Ginny from Neville and Neville from Lavender. All three were staring very fixedly at their breakfasts. If Seamus didn't know any better, he would barely be able to tell that they were friends, let alone that they regularly worked together orchestrating the downfall of a totalitarian dictatorship. Lavender, unlike the other two, was holding a conversation with another human being: an unusually animated Parvati, who all but fell silent when she caught sight of her twin on Seamus's arm. Padma gave a small shrug, and Parvati returned to telling what looked like an uncharacteristically dirty story.

Arm still firmly linked with his, Padma guided Seamus into a seat across the table from Neville. He made an attempt to protest the placement without alerting Neville to his presence, but Padma was halfway across the hall before he could form a coherent argument. To make an awkward situation even more unbearable, the irritated noise Seamus made at her back prompted Neville to look up from his eggs. Seamus felt like he was suffocating as he waited to see if the once-timid boy who had slowly become his closest confidant would reach out a hand and say something. Anything. Seamus would have been happy with "You look like shite."

Finally, voice lowered tremendously as if he was sure someone was listening, Neville said, "I was out of line yelling at you."

It was about as far from what Seamus had expected that he may as well have revealed that he was a major Muggle celebrity, for all the sense it made. As such, he responded with an exceedingly eloquent, "What?"

Neville placed his fork on his serviette, taking care not to get any egg on the table, and pushed his plate aside. Then, just as Seamus thought he was going to speak, he cleared his throat and lowered his eyes to the quickly congealing porridge just beside his left elbow. After much awkward shifting about, he said, "I shouldn't have gotten so angry with you. I was just… I was upset because I was worried." For a split second, he looked up. "No one's been hurt that badly before. If being out after hours got you two days in the Hospital Wing, what happens if we're caught doing something big? I don't think I could bear having someone…" He took a deep breath. "I couldn't keep on, knowing that a mistake I made killed someone."

Seamus wanted to grab hold of his hand, but the fact that Neville was still staring at a cold bowl of milk and oats kept him still. "It wasn't- it was my mistake."

"Your pretty, blonde mistake." Neville winced at the sound of his own voice. "Sorry. That wasn't fair."

_Fair_. There was that word again: the one that had saved him from walking into the she-Carrow's trap. The one his pretty, blonde mistake had gotten so caught up with. The one that hadn't been present in any of their lives for years now. Its reappearance made him angry enough to spout truisms. "Hate to break it to you, mate, but life isn't fair."

Neville didn't take offence. Seamus figured he'd had his fill of that as of late. Instead, he picked up a spoon and said, "Tell me something I don't know."

Although at surface-level it made little sense as a response, Seamus answered, "Thank you."

A smile broke through the mask of indifference that Neville had been trying to keep up. "You're welcome."

They sat in silence for the rest of breakfast, Seamus choking down overcooked bacon and Neville drawing shapes in the cold porridge. There were no outward signs of it – mostly because bits of him still weren't responding quite right to his brain's commands – but Seamus was happier than he'd been in days. There was nothing worse than fucking up so badly that Neville Longbottom couldn't find any redeeming value in what you'd done, and Seamus was incredibly grateful that he hadn't yet sunk to that low.

The day went by mostly without mishap. There was always a pair or two of eyes gawking at him, but no one made any comments regarding his condition. Showing up to class bruised and battered had become almost routine over the course of the year. All through the first two periods and lunch, Lavender pestered him about checking on his bandages, despite the fact that all but one of them had been removed, and the last remaining was in an area that he didn't particularly feel like exposing in front of a few dozen of his fellow students. By the time Muggle Studies rolled around, she'd given up on playing nurse, choosing instead to shoot death glares towards the front of the room whenever the she-Carrow had her back turned and leave Seamus to his own devices.

Leaving him to his own devices turned out to be a bad thing. A very, very bad thing.

It was the assigned reading that got him.

"Who is Gerald Gardner?" the she-Carrow asked. Several hands rose, only to be ignored. Her piggy little eyes swept over the room looking for someone to catch off guard. They lingered on Seamus for far longer than he was comfortable with, but another student caught her attention "Miss Greengrass?"

"Hm?"

Seamus held out for three seconds before giving in and looking over his shoulder. Daphne sat in the second-to-last row, _Theo_ just beside her, Parkinson and HB Zabini a row behind. She looked like a unicorn in wandlight, eyes comically wide and entire body frozen in place. Somehow, she managed to recompose herself and answer, "He was a Squib famous for being one of the primary propagators of Wicca, a Muggle religion meant to give its followers magic powers."

Judging by the way her lips were pursed almost to oblivion, the she-Carrow wasn't pleased with Daphne's presumably correct response. "Who was it that offed him?"

Theodore leaned over as if to whisper something, but Daphne answered on her own. "Nobody knows."

The she-Carrow gave a grunt of acknowledgement and moved on. Seamus, on the other hand, did not. He couldn't bring himself to turn back around. The last time he saw Daphne, she had been crying hysterically over the idea of hurting him. Now, she was incredibly put-together and smiling vacantly at something the Head Boy had just said. The expression made her look just like one of the happy, vapid, interchangeable blonde girls that plagued Muggle society. He didn't – _couldn't –_ understand her. Every time she so much as passed by – whether she be laughing, crying, or pretending not to see him – he was left obsessing over _why._ So he decided to find out.

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><p><strong>I'd like to give a big thank you to everyone who's taken time to review. I really appreciate it :)<strong>


	9. Chapter 9

All Seamus could think was, "_This is mad."_

He thought it while he left Lavender at the door. He thought it while he ran past the dinner traffic. He thought it while he tripped into Alberich of Nibelungen's corridor, and he thought it while he positioned himself in a way that neither pained his leg nor allowed anyone to see him lurking while still leaving him with a mostly unobstructed view of most of the main corridor. It was all _absolutely_ mad, but he couldn't stop himself doing it. Not that he wanted to, honestly – he was finished with being the ambushee, finished with always coming out of their encounters even more confused than before. It was his turn to ask questions.

And just then was his chance.

Either Daphne was much lighter than he'd imagined or his injuries had given him some sort of super strength, because what he intended to be a gentle tug sent her crashing against his chest. It was a wonder her books didn't fly off and hit poor old Alberich square in the jaw.

For a moment the thought that they shouldn't be touching in full view of anyone who cared to turn the corner didn't occur to either of them. She was pressed flush against him, so close he could feel her heartbeat. For an instant, anyway. Then there was a sharp blow to the soft bit just above Seamus's hip. "Did you just hit me?!"

Daphne ignored his savage whisper and hissed out her own. "What is _wrong _with you?"

It occurred to him how often she asked that. Every time they spoke, it felt like. She was acting like it was _his_ fault they'd gotten pulled into their own twisted little conspiracy. Like it was _his_ fault he'd nearly gotten the magic beaten out of him. Like it was _his fault_ the only friends left in his life were slowly pulling away. He'd never before had a real answer for her, mostly because he was preoccupied trying to figure out what in Merlin's name she wanted. But now he did. "Nothing. What's wrong with you?"

She didn't respond.

He pressed on. "Because there's got to be something, that's sure as shite. One second you're crying your eyes out at the idea of seeing me hurt, the next you're batting your lashes at the cute hoor who got me there. Explain that to me, could you? Tell me just why you're doing whatever the hell it is you are."

It was a long time before she said anything. By the time she was through straightening up her bag and fixing her uniform, the corridor had just about cleared out. Finally, though, eyes locked on the frayed threads keeping a hold on his shirt's wonky third button, she asked, "Can we go somewhere else?"

"Not a chance in hell."

For a split second, he was sure she was going to leave. That that was the last straw, not being able to get out of Alberich's sight. But, much to his surprise, she said, "Fine." Then, much more quietly, "I'm afraid."

Seamus couldn't stop the guffaw exploding from somewhere deep inside him. "Too right! What do you have to be afraid of? The recoil from a curse ruining your hair?"

Her face fell. "No."

The tremble in her voice sobered him up. Delicately as he could, as though any verbal misstep would cause him to literally trod on her heart, he repeated, "What do you have to be afraid of?"

Her eyes darted towards the corridor. It was almost empty, but a few stragglers loitered around, talking or looking over their notes for the day. For the second time, she asked, "Can we go somewhere else?"

They ended up not having to go too far. Alberich was large enough that, if they both rested against his base, they were hidden from anyone passing by. The stone floor was freezing, but neither complained. Seamus briefly considered wrapped an arm around Daphne to keep her from shivering, but decided it inappropriate. He stuck his hands under his armpits to keep warm.

"I have a younger sister," she said to her knees. "Astoria. She's a fifth year. We almost didn't come back this year. Tracey didn't – but she's a half-blood, and the new administration thought it wasn't proper for Slytherins to be anything but the purest." For a moment he had no idea who she was talking about, but at 'half-blood' an image of a quiet, dangerously thin girl sprang to his mind. He'd hardly noticed her absence. "My parents moved us to the countryside, but they wouldn't let us stay there; Daddy has businesses to run, Mother has to go out and keep appearances up, and Astoria and I have our 'educations to think about'."

So far, Seamus didn't see a problem. Obligation to socialise with people just as well-off as she was sounded like it would be sunshine and roses, even if there weren't dozens of Muggles and Muggleborns being tortured and killed every day. But the fact that she was still staring fixedly at her own tensed knees kept him from voicing that particular opinion.

His decision to stay quiet was validated almost instantly.

"Astoria found two of our house-elves dead on the kitchen table the morning we were set to leave for the Hogwarts Express. The far wall was carved up to read 'blood traitors.'" She took a shaky breath, chanced a weak smile. "Whoever did it spelled 'traitors' wrong. I'm not sure– never mind. At the end of the first week, when I hadn't joined the Inquisitorial Squad, three dockworkers drowned while unloading a shipment for Greengrass and Co." She was silent for a while. "Daddy always used to hire Muggleborns – he said no one worked harder – but he decided it would be in everyone's best interest to let them go after the news from the Ministry came out. Apparently, that wasn't enough."

Seamus grabbed her hand. It felt incredibly fragile, small and thin, but he held tight. She was shivering. A lock of blonde hair had fallen from behind her ear and formed a barrier between her eyes and his, but it was clear that she was crying. "They told me to take care of her. Astoria. But I can't. I don't know– I can barely take care of myself, clearly, and that's with the Head Boy's help. But you're so brave." A choked laugh. "Dumb as a rock, but brave. You can _do _something. I can't: I can't even stand up to Pansy after seven years of trying. But you can, and you don't care, and I just want you to be able to keep not caring. I don't want them to win. I don't…" She trailed off into a series of hiccoughing little breaths.

An incredible impotence welled up inside him. "Why are you." The question was already wrong, so he started over. "I don't understand why you picked me to help. Why not Neville, or Ginny, or Michael, for Christ's sake? What can _I_ do about any of that? You don't have to– I already know the answer. It's nothing. I can do nothing, all of fuck-all, to stop them, and you know it – fuck if everyone doesn't know it after I've been walking around with my face half beat in because I decided to mouth off to Parkinson, who, may I remind you, is, in fact, a horrible, gaping cunt."

He wasn't sure what reaction he expected. Last time he'd insulted Parkinson, he'd gotten half his face kicked in and a nice visit with Madam Pomfrey for his trouble. For all he knew, she'd hit him too. But she didn't. She laughed. A real laugh – nothing like the tired, beleaguered _ha_'s that he sometimes heard her force out in the presence of Parksinson and Zabini. And then she laughed again. "Neville Longbottom would never call Pansy a… you know."

Seamus couldn't help but smile, too. "But he thinks it."

She laughed once more, but the happiness was gone, replaced by something heavier. The sound faded as quickly as it'd come.

For a long few moments, they sat in silence. Daphne's eyes were trained on the hem of her skirt, and Seamus's on the golden hair still blocking her face. A thousand things to say – many involving more foul names for Pansy Parkinson – ran through his mind, but none seemed right. Instead, he took her hand in his. Gooseflesh rose up where the bare skin of their arms met. Seamus wasn't sure whether it was hers or his.

"I picked you," she said, so quietly that at first he thought he was imagining the soft sound of her voice, "because you don't ever give up. How many times have you ruined a spell, or a potion? But you keep trying." Her voice wavered. "I don't. I give up at the first sign of failure. But with you, it's easier. Being _brave_ is easier."

Despite the fact that Seamus was terribly distracted by her thumb rubbing circles against his own, he managed, "Well, I am a Gryffindor."

The tiniest of smiles left its mark on one corner of her mouth. "You're also late for Care of Magical Creatures."

As much as he wanted to blow it off, spend the rest of the day on a bone-chilling stone floor, holding Daphne's hand, he knew he couldn't. Professors were required to submit attendance at the end of each day, and Seamus couldn't afford an absence. Not so soon after a meeting with the headmaster and his cronies.

So he got up. He hated it, every second of it – his brain protested the movement even more than his still-broken body – but he did it nonetheless. He let go of her trembling hand and got to his feet. He tried not to notice her curling in on herself as he walked away.

It wasn't until he was on the windswept grounds, what felt like miles from a statue's fierce gaze and a pretty girl's tears, that he realised something that made concentrating on Hagrid's mokes near impossible: Daphne Greengrass had his schedule memorised.

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><p><strong>A giant-sized thanks to all of the very sweet reviewers for getting me to start up writing again. It was high time.<strong>


	10. Chapter 10

Seamus's gaiety did not go unnoticed.

From the moment he traipsed into Care of Magical Creatures – fifteen minutes late and wearing no cloak, shit-eating grin plastered across his face despite his many attempts to wipe it away – he had the attention of most everyone in the clearing outside Hagrid's hut. Croyle mumbled amongst themselves over a bucket of miserable-looking mokes in voices too deep not to carry, rendering Goyle's "Paddy's got shagged" loud enough that even the pumpkins in their patch must have heard. Thank Merlin no one paid the hairless gorilla mind. Still, Seamus was red about the ears as he sidled alongside Lavender, Parvati, and their re-purposed flowerpot full of silvery-green lizards. Lavender, occupied as she was with two handfuls of rapidly shrinking and growing animals, didn't seem to see. Parvati did. From her place a safe two paces away from the pot of mokes, she asked, "Since when aren't you a sad?"

"Hm?" was Seamus's ignominious response. In an attempt to hide the flush creeping across his face, he scratched idly at both his nose and his left ear. Lavender looked up from the freshly calmed beasts, then, at the sight of his tangled-up arms, looked right back down, stifling a laugh in one of her shiny dragonhide gloves.

"Don't get me wrong," said Parvati, "you're still as much a mess as usual. You just look awfully pleased with yourself, considering," one neatly-manicured hand swept through the air before his patchwork of bruises and half-healed scabs, "all of that."

There was no answer Seamus could come up with that wouldn't clue the two of them in the moment it came out of his mouth. So, with all of the severity he could muster, he said, "Vati, don't panic, but there's a moke in your plait."

Parvati's scream could have woken the giant squid. Seamus's irrepressible grin was quickly forgotten as the entire class sprang into motion, doing everything they could to keep the now near-invisible mokes from disappearing into the forest. Croyle ran face-first into each other in their haste to recover their own bucket-full of magical lizards.

Forty-two minutes later, Parvati still had not forgiven him for the false alarm. No matter how many times she'd explained to the worn-out class that her scream was all Seamus's fault, there was a look in their eyes that made clear they blamed her for their sweaty foreheads, tired lungs, and smattering of angry red mote bites. "I'm giving you back to Padma," she announced as the fenced-off Whomping Willow came into sight, "See how much she likes you after she spends more than a stroll through the Great Hall with you."

"She's spent more time with me than that," Seamus insisted. "We danced for a song at the Yule Ball. She complained the whole time about Ron, but I reckon she enjoyed herself. Who wouldn't?"

Parvati sniffed delicately and checked the sequins embedded in her nail varnish. When she was satisfied none had been too damaged by scrabbling around after mokes, she answered, "Anyone with a brain."

The mad grin was back on Seamus's face. No amount of disparagement from Parvati could keep him down. He may have looked more like a piece of off fruit than a person, but he finally had undeniable proof of his long-time pet theory that Daphne Greengrass – _Daphne Greengrass_, who had turned out to be a real person behind her pretty face – was interested in him. She had his class schedule committed to memory, for the love of his dear ole wan. To top it off, Padma Patil had made a point of mentioning to her twin that she didn't mind him. If only Dean was around to hear the news, it would have been a near perfect day.

"Lavender loved the night," he said with a gentle elbow to ribs of his one-time date. "Didn't you, Lav?"

The blush that spread across Lavender's already pink-with-cold cheeks was more of a confirmation than he could have hoped for. It stayed on for the rest of the walk to the castle, just as unaffected by Parvati eating Seamus's head off as was Seamus's smile. The glow of the Great Hall's sconces was almost enough to hide it away, but not quite. Lavender sat as far away from him as she could without pressing her entire body against a spindly fifth-year Seamus thought was called Wayne. The boy didn't seem to mind Lavender's presence; he lit up like a Christmas tree when her scarf brushed against his shoulder.

Dinner was top quality. For the first time Seamus could recall, the house-elves had made a full Irish feast. Everyone around took warily to the cabbage-laced potatoes (if they tried them at all), but Seamus dug into his colcannon like a starving man. Not quite as good as his mam's, but alright enough that he hardly noticed when, in unison, Lavender and Parvati's eyes widened, heads tracking something's progress through the Hall.

Very quietly, Lavender said, "Seamus."

Mouth full of colcannon and attention caught by a large crock of coddle, Seamus answered thickly, "Aye?"

"Turn around and look."

After swallowing and grabbing a particularly tasty-looking piece of gur cake, Seamus did what he was told. He should have done so sooner – everyone else had, it seemed. Like a singular being, the hall's occupants sat entranced by a late entrance to dinner.

Daphne picked her way through the hall's far aisle, between the Slytherin and Ravenclaw tables, doing her very best not to acknowledge the dozens of eyes trained on her every movement. From the neck down, none of her was any different than usual. Her robes were clean and neat, skirt nicely pleated, silk tie glimmering softly in the candlelight. Above the collar, though… the most delicate way Seamus could think of to put it was that she appeared to have had a run-in with the same doorframe that gifted him with own facial trauma. Blood ran unchecked from her once straight nose.

"Jesus, Mary, and Joseph," he heard himself say.

As if nothing was wrong, as if her face wasn't sideways and leaking onto her collar, Daphne took her seat beside the Head Boy. The space across from the pair remained empty; Parkinson was nowhere to be found. HB Zabini's gaze did not waver from his empty plate and half-drained goblet, not even when Daphne reached over him for a serviette to hold to her upper lip. She made no move to eat.

A girl with a remarkable resemblance to what Daphne had, up until very recently, looked like ran from the hall. Astoria. It had to have been.

Very slowly, discussion crept back into the hall. Most of it was about the Greengrasses, though a few Hufflepuffs argued very loudly and deliberately over current Quidditch League standings.

Ignoring the protests of his stiff, still-healing spine, Seamus turned his attention to the high table. Just as he had suspected, the she-Carrow was nowhere to be found. The he-Carrow slurped his soup with something awfully close to delight. Beside him was McGonagall, drawn and pale, hands folded beneath the table. Beside her sat the headmaster, utterly engrossed in his meal. If Seamus didn't know any better, the way Snape was behaving would have led him to believe that nothing was wrong. The great bat even had the nerve to turn to the he-Carrow with what appeared from where Seamus sat to be approval.

The colcannon had lost its appeal. Seamus pushed the plate away, nearly knocking over a pitcher of pumpkin juice in his haste. His fork and serviette were quick to follow.

Lavender followed his frenzy with wide eyes. "What are you doing?"

"Leaving," Seamus said, but pain kept him seated. Madam Pomfrey shouldn't have let him go. There wouldn't be a girl with her face rearranged on the other side of the hall if only he'd stayed in the Hospital Wing for a few days more.

"Don't do that!" Lavender half-shouted. Eyes covered with a trembling hand and voice lowered significantly, she continued, "You can't leave or you'll make things worse."

"I'm not hungry." The excuse was empty, but he couldn't stop himself making it. His next argument wasn't any better. "And Astoria left."

"Astoria is her sister," Lavender countered in a whisper more than loud enough to carry. "You… well, you're not, Shay." Volume lowered to a level that could almost have been considered secretive, she added, "You're not even supposed to know her."

Seamus's fingers curled around the corner of the heavy wooden table. It was the only thing within reach he knew for certain he wouldn't shatter. Voice strained, he protested, "But I do."

No doubt having taken stock the hopeless, noiseless gaping of Lavender's mouth and drawn the same conclusion Seamus had – that she was long out of defences – Parvati cut in. "If you leave now, something even worse than a couple of black eyes is going to happen to the both of you." Her nails sparkled bright. Seamus couldn't bring himself to look her in the eyes. "Don't let them get to you. Don't ever let them get to you, or else everything you, and Neville, and Ginny, and _Luna and Dean_ have done won't be for shite. Finish your dinner like everyone else, and don't say a word about this until you're safe somewhere they can't hear you. Do you understand?"

Seamus didn't want to answer, didn't want to say anything, but Parvati's dark eyes were burning a hole in him. With some effort, he managed to force out, "I understand."


	11. Chapter 11

Despite repeated assurances to the contrary, Seamus didn't understand. He didn't understand a thing. Not Daphne's appearance at dinner. Not the reasoning behind her punishment and display before the whole of Hogwarts. Not why everyone kept urging him to act naturally, to pretend like everything was just as always when _nothing_ was. Rich, pretty Slytherin purebloods weren't brutalised to prove a point. That kind of savagery was reserved for people like him. Even if he didn't know Daphne – even if he saw her as nothing more than their opposition's weakest link – Seamus still would have been stunned to see her broken and bloody.

The rules of their world had changed.

Neville walked him back from dinner. With nary a word of explanation, he'd lifted Seamus from his seat and just about carried him out of the Great Hall. Seamus wasn't sure that he would have stayed upright without the help. Still, though, he had his pride. Halfway up their third staircase, through gritted teeth he said, "You don't have to do this, mate. I'm just fine on me own."

No answer came from Neville but a sharp tug at his arm. Seamus had forgotten to skip a trick step. The liquid stone was up to his ankle and rising fast. With Neville's help, he got out easily, but it kept him from protesting again. At least until the two of them reached their dormitory.

As the door clicked shut behind them, Seamus opened his mouth to scream. To shout, to rage, to take all of his anger out on Neville because he knew he was the one person who wouldn't fight back. But no scream would come. The best he could manage was a cracked and whispered, "Why?"

Neville released his grip on Seamus's elbow. "I don't know," he answered.

Angry energy gone as quickly as it had come, Seamus sat where Neville left him. His four-poster was both too far away and far too comfortable to justify the walk. Worn-smooth stone floor cold against his legs and the bare skin of his hands, he asked, "What were they trying to prove?"

"That they aren't afraid of us," Neville replied. There was an odd quality to him. He took off and hung up his cardigan, sat at the foot of his bed and unlaced his shoes just like always, but something beneath the ritual actions had changed. The calm front he'd kept up all year was gone, replaced by equal parts fervour and quiet rage. He didn't speak again until both shoes were off and tucked neatly away beneath his four-poster, but Seamus was more than willing to wait. Deliberately, each word carrying the full weight of his discontent, Neville finished, "They should be."

It wasn't an easy thing to answer. Voice even as he could manage, Seamus asked, "What are you talking about?"

"Graffiti and pigs aren't enough anymore." Neville's tone was steady again, but the fire in his eyes burned brighter than ever. "We have to stand up to them. Really stand up to them, I mean… just like Harry used to."

"Harry's gone," Seamus told the floor. He couldn't bear to look Neville in the eye. "They're all gone."

"Not forever."

There was so much hope in Neville's voice that it pained Seamus to argue. "Neville. You know what they did to Luna. Took her off the train, right in front of our eyes. There's no telling what happened to her after. You'd have to be mad – really, genuinely mad – to think Harry's all right."

A wry smile spread across Neville's face, and Seamus was certain he'd lost his mind somewhere along the walk back to the dormitory. Confidence plain, he said, "I know where Luna is."

Frustration bubbled up through Seamus, threatening to explode. "No, you don't! It's well enough to pretend–"

"I'm not pretending!" Neville interrupted. "I really do know. Well, I know as much as she does, which, if I'm being honest, isn't all that much."

For the second time is as many minutes, Seamus could think of nothing to say but, "What are you talking about?"

Neville shoved a hand deep into his trouser pocket and rummaged around. Utterly bewildered, Seamus watched as he stuck a second hand in to help the looking. By way of explanation, Neville offered, "It's in the lining." Seamus nodded dumbly. He was a header. Neville Longbottom, the closest thing he'd had to a voice of reason, was an absolute header. The Galleon he produced from his pocket with a flourish and a toothy grin only proved it.

Tentatively, Seamus tried to humour him. "You paid someone off?"

"No!" said Neville. He waved the Galleon around, as if the light glinting off its edges would trigger some sort of epiphany in Seamus. Try as he might to understand, it still just looked like a big golden coin.

Then, all at once, it made sense. "Oh!"

Seamus leapt from the floor and ran to his trunk. Half his belongings were scattered across the floor by the time he got to it, but tucked beneath the layers of disused textbooks and dirty vests, in a corner he hadn't disturbed in years, was a bit of gold wrapped in one of Dean's old West Ham socks. He pulled it from the mess. Any other Galleon he would have spent just as soon as he got his hands on it, but not this one. For one thing, it wasn't real. But far more important than its value was the serial number ringing the golden dragon. A serial number that, thanks to an old charm from Hermione, was more than just numbers.

"DA rcrt 2330 div cls," Seamus read with some difficulty. He lifted his gaze from the coin to Neville, whose grin had only grown broader. "Dumbledore's Army recruiting at 23:30 in the Divination classroom? Bit dodgy on the spelling, mate."

"We don't need messengers anymore," Neville enthused. "Nobody extra, nobody to confess. Nobody to torture. We won't even need meetings after this one."

"Another meeting?" Seamus asked, his own smile dripping from his face. "In case you forgot, I'm still recovering from the last one."

For the first time since Luna's name came up, Neville's mad grin faltered. Eyes downcast, he said, "Just one more."

Seamus shut and locked his trunk. He slipped his coin into his back pocket. He sat at the foot of his four-poster, a room of drawn curtains and empty beds fanned out before him. "Just one more," he agreed.

…

At 23:30 on the dot, twenty-two members of the reformed Dumbledore's Army stood huddled in a silent congregation beneath the Divination classroom's open trapdoor. Trelawney's silvery stepladder hung down into their centre. Muddy footsteps went all the way up.

"We shouldn't be here," said Corner under his breath. Terry Boot nodded in silent agreement. "If we get caught here, we'll get into real trouble."

Ginny levelled him with a stare that could have cowed a mountain troll. "You think so?" she whispered back. "Because I was under the impression that breaking curfew to plan an overthrow of the administration would get us a pat on the back and a few points for our trouble."

Michael's eyes dropped to his shoes. Terry froze mid-nod. Neither spoke again.

"What do you think we should do?" Hannah asked Neville softly.

Leadership suited Neville well, but not just now. His eyes darted around the corridor, growing wider at the sight of each expectant face. "I didn't think this far through," he admitted, pink flaring across his cheeks.

So, in uneasy silence, Dumbledore's Army continued to stare at the stepladder, too afraid of what could be on the other end of two ropes and a few blocks of wood to even risk approaching them. Colin Creevey went so far as to press himself against a wall. The hesitation was all too much for Seamus. He'd done enough waiting around lately. "I'll go up," he said, and took a long step toward the ladder. "I already look like I've been dragged behind a horse. What's the worst that could happen?"

No one offered up a suggestion, though their drawn faces made clear they could think of quite a few things worse than Seamus's fading black eyes.

With a weak smile, Neville clapped him on the shoulder and said, "Good luck."

Climbing to the trapdoor under the nervous eye of the DA was no different than doing it to go to class. Hand over hand, watch for twists, don't hit your head on the ceiling on the way up. Nothing to worry about. The pounding in his chest was only a natural reaction to being the centre of attention, he told himself. There was no way the Carrows could have worked out the Galleon system so quickly – it had fooled Umbridge for a year, and she was about twelve times as smart as the two of them combined. Everything would be fine. The classroom was empty. No one was lying in wait.

His head passed through the open trapdoor, and, for a fleeting second, he believed his own pep talk.

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><p><strong>Hey all, just wanted to let you know the rating's been upped to M. Thanks, Carrows.<strong>


	12. Chapter 12

The classroom showed signs of inhabitation, but no inhabitant.

A small fire burned beneath Trelawney's cluttered mantel, casting flickering shadows over the room's dense furnishings. The copper kettle was off its hook, placed haphazardly on the hearth, stripping the room of its usual fog of incense. No lamps were lit. Darkness shrouded the corners of the room too far for the fire's glow to reach, but there was light enough to see.

Quietly as he could, Seamus pulled himself through the trapdoor and onto the classroom's carpet. Without so much as a deep breath to betray his presence, he got to his feet and scanned the room for its resident. She saw him before he saw her.

From the farthest corner, deep in shadow, came a thick voice. "Go away."

Seamus turned on the nearest lamp, an old gas model draped in a thick red scarf. It didn't help. The flame barely illuminated his fingers on the knob. Wand firmly in hand, he muttered, "_Lumos_."

Yellow light flooded the dark room. One of the dozen or so chintz armchairs had been pulled from its spindly little table to the room's only bare window. Its occupant sat with her forehead pressed against the frosty glass, long blonde hair obscuring the rest of her features. A crystal ball lay discarded on the floor.

"Daphne?" he whispered.

"I said go away." The curtain of hair fluttered with each word. "Tell your friends to go away, too, before someone finds them."

Every shred of common sense he possessed screaming at him not to, Seamus followed her instructions. At least in part. Dimmed wand safe on a little round table, he kneeled beside the trapdoor. A circle of wide-eyed faces stared back up at him. Colin Creevey looked liable to faint. Neville wasn't far behind.

"Is everything all right?" he called up.

"Find somewhere else," Seamus whispered back. "There's… just find somewhere else, yeah?"

Neville grimaced, but he didn't ask any questions. Ginny did. "Who's up there?" she demanded, wrapping a hand around the stepladder's base.

"Ginny? Go argue with someone else."

With a sharp yank on the puff-painted handle, the trapdoor swung shut – but not before Ginny threw an obscene gesture his way. In part to reassure himself that her presence was more than just a cruel invention of his imagination and in part to wipe Ginny's glare from his mind's eye, Seamus turned back to Daphne.

She was still there in the armchair, face pressed against the icy glass. "You were supposed to go, too," she said, voice echoing oddly off the windowpane.

"What are you doing here?" Seamus asked. The story of her dropping Divination had stuck with him; it seemed strange that she would voluntarily spend time in Trelawney's classroom after being told so unceremoniously that she didn't belong. Not to mention the castle-wide curfew that had gone into effect two-and-a-half hours before.

"Patrolling," she answered.

Steps muffled by the downy red carpet, he crossed the room. "Patrolling what? That window?"

"Blaise promised to cover my route."

"That's nice of him. Head Boy, running about for his mot." He reached the armchair, and the girl on it. Ignoring the protests of his bruised hip, he hunkered down beside her. "Daphne, look at me."

"I don't want to," she insisted, ragged breaths shaking her shoulders. But she did.

Up close, her injuries were no worse than he'd seen in the mirror. With her nose back where it was supposed to be, the only sign that it had been broken was the delicate purple of her twin black eyes. The blood was all gone, painstakingly wiped away. A few cuts and scrapes remained, but they weren't what made it hard to look. It was the pain in her eyes, clear as day in the dim light from the fire.

"How did they find out?" he asked.

Her nose screwed up at the question. Tears fell from the tips of her lashes, freed from suspension by the movement. "What are you talking about?"

"How did the Carrows find out about our, ehm… conversation?" he elaborated.

Laughter erupted from her like a shot from a gun. The smile that followed the sound transformed her back into the Daphne he knew, if only for a second. "This," she said, tracing the pad of her thumb over a nasty, half-healed cut, "has nothing to do with you."

"Oh," said Seamus. He sunk back onto his heels and tried to make sense of her response. "Then what… who– why?"

For a girl who was halfway through wiping tear tracks from a puffy black eye, her answer was awfully flippant. "Would you like to ask me where and when, too?"

When no clever answer made itself clear, Seamus busied himself with finding a more comfortable way to sit. After an awkward shuffle and a knock of his knee against the leg of Daphne's armchair, he ended up cross-legged on the floor. For a long moment after, the two of them sat in silence: she in her pretty pink armchair and he on the dense, dusty carpet, waiting to see who would break first.

It was Daphne. Just as Seamus considered repeating his question, her steely countenance cracked, replaced by a flood of words.

"Astoria has been saying some… not-so-polite things about Headmaster Snape and the Professors Carrow, and they thought the best way to stop her was to hurt someone close to her," she admitted, arms wrapped tight around her folded legs. "You might have been an inspiration to her, actually. 'Pigs' was getting thrown around quite a lot."

Heat flooded into Seamus's cheeks. "Sorry about that."

"Apology accepted," she mumbled, the words catching on the bare skin of her knee. "But it isn't your fault. She should know better."

"_I _should know better," he countered, louder than was strictly necessary. "Your sister isn't out at twenty-three hundred trying to incite a revolution."

The line appeared between her eyebrows. Voice muffled now by the crook of her elbow, she said, "You shouldn't tell me things like that."

He could have laughed at the sheer ridiculousness of it all. There they were, huddled together in a dimly-lit classroom hours after curfew – both with faces like beat-up fruit – and she was worried about knowing too much. If it weren't for her knowing too much, Seamus would have waltzed into more trouble than he knew how to handle weeks ago. Carrow 1 and 2 would have made short work of him. But they hadn't. Sure, they'd belted him a little, but that he could handle. Daphne Greengrass was his saviour, and he wanted her to know it.

"If I could, I would tell you everything," he said, only barely in control of what was coming out of his mouth, and took one of her hands in his.

She burst into tears. Ugly, unhinged tears.

"Fuck," said Seamus before realizing that swearing at her probably wouldn't stop the wrenching sobs wracking her thin form. He considered letting go of her hand, but didn't. Instead, he grabbed hold of the other one, too. Her crying intensified. "Oh, fuck. I mean– shite, I don't know what I mean. Please stop crying."

She didn't stop. If anything, her sobs got louder.

Panicking and squeezing her hands so hard his own bones began to rub together obviously was not working. So he switched tactics. "Sit with me," he said.

"W-what?"

"Sit with me," he said again, and let go of one of her hands to pat the carpet beside him. Without a word, she slipped from the armchair to the floor. Even while crying – crying hysterically, crying so hard it hurt just to listen – she moved with more grace than he could quite wrap his head around. Gently as possible, the fear that he would break her never far from the front of his mind, he took her in his arms. A dark, wet spot spread down the front of his uniform shirt from where she laid her head. He didn't mind.

"I'm sorry," she choked out. Her breath was hot against the growing damp spot. "I don't– I don't usually cry this much. Or e-ever, when I'm not with you. But I just… I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."

"Shh," he said, resting his chin against the top of her head. Her hair was soft beneath his fingers. "It's okay."

Slowly, very slowly, the sobbing stopped. Her body relaxed against him. If it weren't for the hiccups that came every few breaths, he would have thought she'd fallen asleep. "It's all going to be okay," he whispered.

They sat for what felt like hours before either spoke again, Seamus afraid to do anything more than stroke her hair and breathe. The fire was no more than embers when Daphne whispered, "You should go."

"I don't want to," he answered, voice hoarse from disuse.

"You have to." She wiped her eyes with the heel of her hand. "Blaise is coming to get me at sunrise. I don't–"

"I don't care," Seamus declared.

She continued, unabated by the interruption. "I don't want you to get into any more trouble on my behalf. You saw him at dinner, didn't you? Blaise means well, but he only stands up for me when it doesn't compromise his own position. If he sees you here, he'll take you straight to the Carrows."

"I don't care," he repeated. "I've already had me head beat in. What worse could they do?"

"They'll kill you," she answered. Before Seamus had a chance to respond, before he could finish processing the full implication of those three little words, her lips were on his, soft and warm and entirely unexpected. They were gone just as quickly, off with the rest of her to the chintz armchair. Safely tucked away in its floral cushions, she commanded, "Now get out."

Light-headed and tingling, Seamus obeyed.


End file.
